After settling matters with Alfred, Thomas Clement DuPont and Pierre Samuel DuPont arrived together at the Valentino Hot Springs Hotel in Washington.
They didn't sneak through the side entrance to Leo's private villa on the hotel grounds.
Instead, they arrived at 6 p.m. — the busiest hour of the day — right at the main gate.
And rather than having their driver take them directly to the villa, they got out at the gate and began walking. On foot. Under countless watching eyes, they made their way toward Leo's villa.
The Valentino Hot Springs Hotel was an expensive place — every politician and businessman who came here was someone sharp and well-connected.
Almost everyone recognized the two men — the other "two carriages" of the DuPont family, members of America's highest elite.
Two men whom even these guests would never dare to speak to casually.
And yet here they were, choosing to walk across the vast resort grounds — a trek of seven or eight kilometers — just to meet Mr. Valentino.
The crowd couldn't help but glance toward the hill where Leo's villa stood.
Their eyes were filled with awe.
For such powerful men to humble themselves in this way… it showed just how terrifyingly powerful Leo Valentino had become.
The guards at the hotel gate immediately reported the sighting to Tony Lip, who in turn hastily informed Leo.
Leo pondered for a moment and said,
"They are, after all, top-tier figures in America. By walking here, they've already given me plenty of face.
Of course, they might have their own agenda — perhaps even trying to test or pressure me.
But I've been in the spotlight too much lately; I should consider how the other elites perceive me.
I can't really let them walk seven kilometers — that would make me look overly domineering.
Prepare the car. I'll go greet them myself."
Thomas and Pierre DuPont were not men accustomed to physical exertion.
At their age, the total distance they had walked in the past decade probably didn't add up to what they'd done today. Their legs were aching and numb.
Then they heard the sound of an approaching car.
They exchanged glances — Leo was a clever man, too clever. He wasn't giving them any chance to turn the situation against him.
Their original plan had been this: if Leo refused to come meet them, they'd quietly spread word that he was arrogant beyond reason.
Imagine the story — even the DuPonts had to walk seven kilometers just to beg his forgiveness, and he didn't even meet them halfway.
If that image spread, it would ruin Leo's reputation among the upper class.
They had dared to try this because they were confident Leo wouldn't retaliate too harshly over mere gossip.
Doing so would only make him seem insecure — not worth the trouble.
Over time, they could slowly undermine him — like boiling a frog in warm water — until the mighty Leo fell from his throne.
But now, Leo was coming to greet them himself.
So they knew the truth: this man was flawless.
With such a person, they could only bow their heads.
The DuPonts had seen every kind of power America had to offer. They knew — in every era, there was one central figure.
And if this era's protagonist was Leo Valentino, then resisting him was pointless.
When Leo's car was twenty meters away from them, he told Tony to stop.
Tony asked, "Sir, shouldn't we drive closer to receive them?"
Leo looked at the crowds gathered on both sides of the road and said,
"No. Right here."
He stepped out of the car, smiling warmly at the two DuPonts in the distance — but he didn't move a step closer.
Thomas and Pierre exchanged glances again, then sighed internally.
There was no doubt now — Leo truly was the protagonist of this age.
By forcing them, in front of all these witnesses, to walk up to him, Leo was making them publicly declare submission:
"The DuPont family yields."
In truth, the two had never suffered such humiliation in their lives.
But with Alfred already gone — and such a heavy price already paid — regret was meaningless.
And Alfred had been the most capable among their generation.
If even he couldn't defeat Leo, what chance did they have?
There was no retreat left — only forward.
They gritted their teeth, composed themselves, and smiled as they walked toward him.
Leo stood still, waiting patiently until they arrived.
He opened his arms and said,
"Gentlemen, your presence truly graces the Valentino Hot Springs Hotel."
He personally opened the car door and ushered them inside.
The car started and soon disappeared from view.
In Leo's villa study, the three men discussed at length the future of the military-industrial complex — or rather, the future Leo envisioned.
When Leo finally saw them out, none of them mentioned Alfred's fate.
Leo's intelligence network was now vast and sophisticated.
He already knew, in broad strokes, what had transpired at the DuPont estate.
Their visit today was a public signal — a declaration that the DuPont family's internal power structure had changed.
Alfred DuPont had exited the stage of history — and at their level, what else but death could force such an exit?
Victory was sweet, and Leo had already ordered Joseph to travel to the Pacific refuge to bring back his family.
Now, no one in America could threaten him.
From a postwar fugitive to the hidden king of America — only a few more stones remained to be cleared from his path.
As he walked toward his bedroom, Leo thought of his remaining two domestic rivals.
Alfred was gone; the others would soon follow.
When he opened the bedroom door, three alluring women awaited him under the soft amber light.
Marilyn Monroe in a bunny outfit, Grace Kelly in a royal gown, and Audrey Hepburn draped in sheer silk.
Tonight would be another night of chaos and conquest.
Late at night, the moonlight shimmered over the sea, turning it into a silvery expanse.
A luxury cruise liner bound for Europe glided steadily across the Atlantic — an old Cunard ship, steeped in history and prestige.
In the third-deck bar, the guests had left and the staff were cleaning up.
Behind the counter, the weary bartender wiped a glass and said,
"Hey, Duer, help this gentleman back to his cabin."
The waiter, Duer, grumbled,
"Why me again? He's drunk out of his mind — and he never tips!"
"You already helped him yesterday," the bartender replied. "No harm doing it again. Tomorrow you can ask him for two days' worth of tips. Trust me — he's a generous man."
"What if he doesn't show up tomorrow? He's been drinking non-stop for two days."
"He'll be back. A good bartender can read a man's heart — and this one's full of sorrow and fear.
I don't know what he's been through, but without my hot toddy, he won't sleep a wink tonight."
"Fine," Duer sighed, hoisting the well-dressed drunk over his shoulder carefully to avoid ruining the fine suit.
After tossing the man onto his bed, Duer muttered a curse and left, locking the door behind him.
But as soon as the door clicked shut, the drunk's eyes snapped open.
Fear flashed within them — it was Roland Morgan.
When he'd learned that Alfred had been killed by their own cousins, he'd made a snap decision: run.
He knew Jack Morgan too well — a man who only thrived in fair weather.
When trouble came, Jack would deflect blame and find a scapegoat.
Roland had no intention of being that scapegoat.
He bought passage on a British liner and fled toward Europe.
But from the moment he boarded, he'd felt eyes on him — unseen, but constant.
It was too late to disembark; the ship was at sea.
Unable to face death sober, he chose to drown himself in alcohol.
Yet tonight, despite heavy drinking, the moment Duer dropped him on the bed, he was instantly sober.
Then — click.
The sound of the lock turning.
Roland froze, heart pounding.
The door was supposed to be locked from the outside — which meant someone had just unlocked it.
He grabbed a sculpture from the nightstand and crept toward the door, hoping to ambush whoever entered.
But just as he approached, the door suddenly swung inward — slam!
It smashed into him, knocking him unconscious.
Outside stood a broad-shouldered man in a black suit. He smirked coldly and muttered,
"Idiot. Didn't even realize he was blocking the light."
He slung Roland over his shoulder, shut the door, and quickly moved to the deck before anyone could investigate.
The ocean wind was fierce.
Roland shivered awake, then screamed when he realized what lay beneath him — a vast, black abyss of freezing waves.
"Whatever Jack paid you, I'll pay double — no, ten times! Everything I own in England — it's yours! Don't throw me in! You'll be rich beyond your dreams!"
The man smiled faintly.
"My name is Duke Morgan. Technically, that makes me your nephew.
Everyone thought I'd be working for you one day. But it seems I'll be serving Augustus instead."
At that, Roland's last hope died.
He'd long known the Morgan family had two faces — one in the light, one in the shadows.
The upper Morgans ruled high society; the hidden Morgans dealt with blood and secrets.
This structure had existed since his grandfather's time in England.
Roland had spent years trying to uncover that shadow family, but found nothing.
Now, at last, he met them — only at the moment of his death.
Before he could speak again, Duke loosened his grip.
"AAAHHHH—!"
Roland's scream vanished into the icy Atlantic.
Within a minute, the sea swallowed him whole.
A sailor on patrol noticed Duke by the railing.
"What happened there?" he called.
"Nothing," Duke replied calmly. "Couldn't sleep. Just needed some fresh air."
"Be careful, that's dangerous out there."
Duke nodded and went back to his cabin.
He didn't know that two figures on the observation deck had witnessed everything.
"What now?" said Carson, Joseph's protégé. "The target's been eliminated by their own man."
"Then our job's done," his partner said flatly. "Think of it as a vacation."
"Should we take out the Morgan assassin too?"
"He's not our concern."
In New York, at the quietest hour before dawn, Samuel sat awake inside a synagogue.
He had moved there for safety — not for faith, but because Will had surrounded the place with layers of armed security.
Even so, Samuel slept poorly, waking every hour.
At 4 a.m., he gave up on sleep and went to the front hall — where he saw someone sitting in the first pew.
His heart leapt, until he heard the voice.
"It's me, Samuel," said Will.
Relieved, Samuel asked, "What are you doing here, Will?"
"I've been thinking," Will said quietly. "Why did we lose so completely?
Fewer and fewer people come to pray. Since we moved into Wall Street, it's never been like this before."
Samuel sat beside him. "I've been wondering the same thing. Maybe we really are old.
Even with all our advantages, we still couldn't beat that young man."
"I think so too," Will replied coldly. "This isn't our era, Samuel. It belongs to Valentino.
But though we don't belong to it… our children still live in it.
So tell me, Samuel — what should we do about that?"
His voice was icy — so cold that Samuel shivered involuntarily.
He turned to him, horrified.
"You… what are you planning to do?"